“You have a quick mind, Chucho,” he said when the man came over to clear his plate away. “I should have been more circumspect when I was making notes — but I wanted to get those outlandish foreign names down before I forgot them. I have never seen any of the places they mentioned, but I am sure that there are men who have. You were inspired to tell them that I was a poet. You deserve every peso I promised — and more.” The small bag clinked when he pushed it across the table; it vanished instantly under Chucho’s apron.

“Well, it looked like a book of poems. And I was right, that was a most powerful and inspiring poem about our country’s battles—”

“And written by a powerful poet, alas not me. I take no credit for it. That was written by the patriot Francisco González Bocanegra, Mexico’s greatest poet. He gave his life for his country, just two years ago. Now — get in touch with Miguel, tell him we leave at dawn.”

At first light Don Ambrosio was waiting outside the half-ruined hut where he had been staying for the past weeks. The Indian woman in the adjoining house had cooked meals for him, and washed his clothes, and was more than grateful for the few coins he gave her. Miguel had been caring for his horse at one of the nearby farms. She whinnied when she saw him and he rubbed her nose with affection. In a fit of classical enthusiasm he had named her Rocinante after the great knight’s own mount.

“She looks fine.”

“There was good grass there. She was in the fields with the donkeys.”

Miguel’s donkey was so small that the rider’s feet almost dragged in the dust of the trail. He led another donkey loaded with their belongings, while Don Ambrosio brought up the rear mounted on his fine bay. The full force of the sun blasted down when they left the narrow village streets. The Don wore his wide-brimmed and handsomely decorated sombrero on his back secured by its string; he put it onto his head and settled it into place.